"What is it like, Sammy?"

"Ain't it like _folks_, Miss Ruth?" Grandma sings:--

'I'll take my wings and fly away
In the morning,'

"Yes," she said; "it _is_ like folks." Then glancing at her crutch,
repeated, smiling: "In the morning."

When the woodbine in the porch had turned red, and the maples in the
door-yard yellow, the flower-pots were removed to the warm cellar, and
one winter evening Sammy Ray wrote Greeny's epitaph:--

"A poor green worm, here I lie;
But by-and-by
I shall fly,
Ever so high,
Into the sky."

He came often in the spring to ask if any thing had happened, and one
day Miss Ruth took from a box and laid in his hand a shining brown
chrysalis, with a curved handle.

"What a funny little brown jug!" said Sammy.

"Greeny is inside; close your hand gently and see if you feel him."

"How cold!" said the boy; and then: "Oh! oh! he _is_ alive, for he